


the honeytrap

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Violence, Mobster Jensen Ackles, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26501800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Jared was supposed do the job--get in, get the information, get out. It took longer than he thought. It wasn't supposed to go the way it did.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: fic for fire relief [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 12
Kudos: 69





	the honeytrap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silver9mm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm/gifts).



> This fic was written for wildfire relief. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.

Jared’s been tied to the chair for at least an hour, maybe longer, before the door finally opens. It’s dark in here, but the hall outside is bright, and there’s a moment where he blinks, blinded, unable to pick out the silhouette of whoever’s standing there in the first bright shock.

“You know,” he hears, and his stomach clenches. He drops his head. “I thought moles were supposed to be smarter than this.”

He works his jaw. It’s sore from when the heavies took him down, earlier. “I think I was smart enough,” he says. Purplish afterimages blur past his eyes and he focuses on them, on the smeared nastiness on his jeans, on the rug. He might get killed for saying that. Jensen’s famously unpredictable, with people who challenge his business. Jared wasn’t supposed to be one of them.

There’s just quiet, though. Jensen flicks the switch by the door and the lights come on, illuminating Jared’s bedroom in the house in the soft lamps he’d always preferred. It might be past midnight, but it’s hard to say. The curtains are drawn and they took his watch, not that he’d have been able to see it from where his wrists are lashed behind him, and they took the clock from his bedside table, too. Disorienting him, with no light and no time. Always one of Jensen’s favorite moves.

Like now—he’s quiet, now. Jared swallows and it hurts his throat where Carlo elbowed him, but he doesn’t say anything, either. Jensen gave him the advice, when they were in bed, done with their fun and just talking. _Hard for your opponent to use something against you, if you don’t give them anything to use_.

If they’re both silent the whole time this will be a farce. Jared’s not going to break first, if he can help it. Instead he keeps his head down, his hair hanging in front of his face, and waits while Jensen presumably just—looks at him, and then while he closes the door very quietly, and then while he steps forward, over the wood floor, onto the rug. He’s wearing leather boat shoes, soft linen trousers. A gentleman at leisure. He walks a small circle around Jared’s chair, presumably checking the knots, but the other thing about Jensen’s business is that he insists that every employee be extremely well-trained at their jobs. No sloppy easily-picked handcuffs, here, and no wobbly wooden chair it’d be easy to break. This is steel, and the ropes keeping him in place are practically bondage knots. They actually might be, now that Jared’s thinking about it. He imagines himself all trussed up with the soft purple cord Jensen favors and smiles, down at his lap, edge of hysteria riding up that he needs to quell, if he’s going to get out of this. If he gets out of this.

Warm, strong fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. He’s pulled up easy, not wrenched. Jensen’s standing at his left shoulder, looking down at his face. He looks—god. How he always looks. When he got this assignment Jared thought, _well, at least that part won’t be hard_. Little did he know. Jensen’s eyes are thoughtful, his mouth soft. He tugs at Jared’s hair, just a little, like a tease. “You look like shit,” he says, and Jared bets that’s true. His nose finally stopped gushing but the sticky crust of the dried blood is all down his face, his neck. Jensen’s thumb rubs along his hairline. “How many guys did it take to bring you down?”

He licks his lips, tastes salt. “Four,” he says, knowing that Jensen already would know that, and at least Jensen smiles at him for being honest. It’s as pretty as it always is. As dangerous as it always is.

Jensen leaves him, then, pacing away over the rug. Jared turns his head to follow and watches Jensen go into the ensuite bathroom, hears a faucet turn on and run. He swallows again, his fingers flexing against the immovable rope. He was supposed to be gone, by now. He was supposed to be out. He shouldn’t have—if Jensen hadn’t come back—

“Jay,” Jensen calls, over the water, and Jared closes his eyes. “When you went into that office, what were you looking for?” He doesn’t respond. “I mean, I know what’s in there. What did you think was in there?”

The water turns off and when he looks again, Jensen’s got his sleeves rolled up, his feet bare. A cloth, wet in his hands, that he’s twisting idly, not minding that it drips on the hardwood. “I can’t tell you that,” Jared says, aching, and the corner of Jensen’s mouth turns up, in response.

He comes closer and Jared still faintly expects—he doesn’t know. To be slapped, to be gutpunched. Jensen usually leaves the heavy stuff for his staff but one doesn’t get to be as feared as he is, in the world he lives in, without being willing to get one’s hands dirty. Instead, Jensen comes in close, close enough that his knee brushes the inside of Jared’s thigh. The contact makes his leg jerk, though he can’t move much from how his ankle’s lashed to the chair. The flinch gets him a shuttered look from Jensen, and his voice quiet, inflectionless: “Hasn’t been so long that you’re surprised by me touching you, has it?”

It was this morning, Jared thinks, his chest aching. This morning, waking up right here in the bed not ten feet from them, and Jensen looking at him with his head propped on his hand. _Want me to bring you back anything from Milan?_ he’d said, indulgent as a king. _A painting? A pony?_ Jared had said, _a fashion company_ , and Jensen had smiled at him and kissed his shoulder, rolled out of bed, said _sleep, I’ll be back before you know it._

Jensen folds the wet cloth into thirds and starts dabbing Jared’s skin, his mouth. Careful of the bruises and cuts but still firm, cleaning him up. Jared hitches air, his reactions obvious. It’d be easier if Jensen were hitting him. He’s sure Jensen knows that.

“I don’t know who you’re working for,” Jensen says. Quiet again. He refolds the cloth, works with a non-stained side. Jared keeps his face tilted back, obedient. Jensen pauses, thinking, and huffs, before he carefully starts cleaning Jared’s nose. “Well. I didn’t know you were working for anyone, did I, Jay. It matters a little, if it’s—whatever, the FBI. The Vitali. Some… vigilante band, trying to save the day? You like those superhero stories, maybe you’re one of those.” He drags the washcloth along Jared’s throat, finishing up. “Although I don’t think Superman tends to use whores.”

Jared’s head jerks back. He can’t help it. Jensen’s still leaning over him, the washcloth red between them, and he looks all over Jared’s face, and smiles, lopsided. “You do clean up nice, though. I guess it’s not a bad gig, if you can get it.”

“What are you going to do?” Jared’s heart feels like it’s beating in his ears, pulsing sickly, heavy.

Jensen looks him in the eyes. He tosses the cloth to the side and stays where he is, close. “What do you think I should do?”

Jared breathes out, like a laugh, but it’s not at all funny. All those murmured conversations, silly pillow talk, in either of their bedrooms, in Jensen’s office when the door was locked, and Jared was sitting on his desk smiling down at him, pretending. And then, not pretending. Jensen talking obliquely about the problems of his day, the deals that had to be made and the blackmail that had to be applied, the pressure to apply in this place, or that. _And what do you think I should do?_ Jensen would say, and Jared would hum and pretend to think and offer some silly suggestion, something light and absurd that would make Jensen laugh.

Jensen was supposed to be long-gone. In his plane, on his way to Milan, and the staff with him. Jared had waited, worked out in the house gym like he usually did, went swimming like he usually did. Lunch, in the kitchen with Marisol the cook, and he was play-fighting with her to do his own dishes like she never let him do when his phone beeped, in his back pocket, and he saw the notification that the private jet had taken off, and the bottom had dropped out of his stomach but he’d thought, okay. Okay. This is what it had all been for, right? It’s what his job was about.

He’s been quiet too long. Jensen’s not smiling, anymore. “You didn’t manage to get anything out,” he says. Jared’s eyes dart up and Jensen shrugs, one shouldered. “Sal practically took your phone down to its component parts. Unless you managed to shove a super secret flash drive up your asshole, I know you didn’t do more than see my files.”

“Secret’s safe, then,” Jared says.

Jensen’s eyes half-lid, his head tipping. He gets his hand around Jared’s throat and Jared drags in air, thinking—finally—but instead of the pain he expects, Jensen swings in closer, sits. His thighs, spread around Jared’s hips. His crotch, pressed close enough that Jared’s fly presses against the familiar heavy package, and his arm slung over Jared’s shoulder, his face just there above Jared’s, hovering close enough that Jared can feels his breath, a little warm, a little laced with alcohol. Like he paused and had a drink, before coming in here. Like he sat, in his office, with the decanter sitting beside him, and his face tucked behind his hand like Jared’s seen him do just a few times, before. When something had gone too badly wrong. When it was something that Jared knew had hurt.

Jensen’s knuckles against his cheekbone where it’s swelling, sore. “I really thought about buying a fashion company, you know,” he says, soft. Jared blinks, his wrists straining in their bonds. “Just a little one, some cute line. I thought you’d laugh.”

“I would’ve,” Jared says.

It was the wrong thing to say. Jensen’s eyes tighten, and then drop to Jared’s mouth. When he kisses Jared it’s hard, as rough and need-deep as it is when they’ve been in the rawest throes in bed, when Jared’s had Jensen’s hands tight above his head and his knees bent back to his shoulders and Jensen’s been egging him on, vicious, saying _fuck me harder, c’mon, like you mean it_. It hurts now, on Jared’s split lip, but he lets Jensen bite him and drops his jaw and lets his head sink back into Jensen’s grip on his hair, fucks his tongue against Jensen’s when it’s offered, and Jensen makes this weird growling sound, in his chest, something Jared’s never heard from him before. When he pulls back it’s just by half an inch, enough to grind his forehead against Jared’s, their mouths barely separate and their air puffing together. “You really got me,” he says, after a few seconds, and Jared turns his head enough that their noses brush, his brain somehow not engaged, not understanding, for that moment. “I didn’t think anyone—”

When Jared gets it he closes his mouth, turns his face, but it’s too late. Jensen’s reaching between them, unzipping Jared’s ruined jeans, sliding his hand down in that knowing perfect grip. He’s half-hard just from the kiss and Jensen’s fingers, his touch, the smell of his cologne, the weight in his lap—that’s going to get him there, regardless of what’s waiting, on the other side of this. Jensen tugs his own pants open and he’s hard already, springing out, the thick pressure of it grinding up against Jared’s stomach, through his shirt. Jensen jacks him, rubs them together, and Jared closes his eyes, tips his head back, feels it.

“What could I do?” Jensen says. Warm, sweet a little, like this is just play-talk, like he wants to give Jared a treat. “Suck your dick? Maybe cockwarm it for you, hm? Like that time, in Chicago, when it was your birthday.” Jared groans, remembering—how could he ever forget?—how Jensen had let him finish in the soft welcoming pit of his throat and then hadn’t budged, had looked at him with a sweep of those shocking eyelashes from where he still nestled between Jared’s legs and then settled in, his mouth so warm and steady, a gentle pulse that promised to go on half the night, if Jared wanted. He’s definitely hard, now—Jensen gathers both their dicks into his hand, not big enough to circle them but enough to keep them in place while he grinds in, slides their skin together, his mouth close against Jared’s ear, talking. “Or—” he says, punctuating with a squeeze around Jared’s cockhead that makes his hips jump in the chair— “Maybe I could untie you, hm? Have the boys take you to the bed, spread you out there. Open myself up and ride you, real slow, dragging it out like you hate it—but I think you like it, too, don’t you, Jay? When I just use you like that, making it good for me. Making you wait.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, breathless, and Jensen bites him, under the ear on the straining tendon in his throat, and he—god, god, he wants his hands free, wants to grab Jensen’s ass and rock up into him, wants to go to his knees, wants to say that—it wasn’t his idea—that he didn’t want it like this, this way, that it was supposed to—

Jensen’s jacking him faster, using his own precome since Jared usually doesn’t leak as much. It’s a steady pumping grip, as good as Jared would use on himself because in those first six months Jensen half the time just wanted Jared to perform for him, wanted to watch him come, wanted to see— _show me how you’d want me to do it_ , he’d say, smiling, and Jared would laugh and tease himself and make a show of it, but Jensen watched, learned. Learned—fuck—fucking _perfectly_ , and Jared’s ass is clenching now, following the rhythm, wanting to fuck up into something that Jensen’s so easily providing. The kiss that time is sore and sweet, Jensen licking in and staking his claim, taking Jared’s air, all his attention. Jensen’s pushing against him, fucking in too, his thighs closing hard around Jared’s hips, and it does feel—almost—like they’re together, like it’s how it ought to be. Like none of this happened, like it’s just Jared, welcoming Jensen home after a business trip, and Jensen moans quiet in the pit of his throat and Jared jerks in his ropes and—comes, like that, creaming up Jensen’s thousand dollar shirt, spilling helplessly all over his hand, between them. Jensen keeps working him, pulling it out of him, and Jared gasps through it, bites his lip, and Jensen kisses that too, where his skin’s pulled tight, and when he comes it’s quieter, with his head tucked in by Jared’s shoulder, with his free hand gripping Jared’s hair. He’s heavy, in Jared’s lap. Jared tries to breathe steady and can’t. Jensen shudders, against his chest.

He doesn’t have his expression together when Jensen pulls back. Jensen looks at him and it’s—he didn’t know, that Jensen could look like that. He swallows and can’t say anything.

“You know I can’t let you go,” Jensen says.

Jared presses his lips together. He feels his jaw clench and tries to loosen it.

Jensen’s thumb drags along his hairline, again. “Whatever they were paying you,” he says, sounding regretful. “I would’ve tripled it. More.”

When he gets up he’s a mess. Jared’s come, his own, smeared all over. He picks up the bloody washcloth and wipes his hands. Perfunctory swab, of his dick, and he tucks himself away, and then skims off the shirt and drops it with the washcloth. To be thrown in the trash, no doubt. Shirtless, he’s the same creamy gold he’s always been, but there’s a bruise on his shoulder. Deep, very deep, in a circle, that Jared stares at. Wasn’t there this morning. The sort of thing you might get from being shot, while wearing a vest.

When he meets Jensen’s eyes they’re not cold, or cruel. He’s just looking at Jared, there in his chair, in the room where Jared had fallen in love with him. “We’ll see,” he says, “how long it takes, before we find out who you work for. I hope you tell, before it’s too late. I don’t want to waste a good whore.”

He switches the light off, before the door closes behind him. Jared’s left alone, in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629269731241836544/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-silver9mm-donated) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
